064: It Is Just That Simple

Eddy Curry and Andres Nocioni departed in peace.

Before the game, Eddy Curry mocked Nocioni.
After the game began, Nocioni mocked Eddy Curry.
When the game ended, neither of them was laughing.

The smiles naturally did not disappear; they simply transferred to Lynch's face.

Although in the final three quarters, after Nocioni was switched to guard Lynch, Lynch's scoring was no longer quite as easy. Still, he finished the game with 26 points, 11 rebounds, 6 assists, and 2 blocks, while holding Eddy Curry to a mere 7 points.

Throughout the entire match, Eddy Curry took only 8 shots.

When a team's leading scorer takes just 8 shots, it is undoubtedly compounding the misery for an already offensively challenged Bulls squad.

The score of this game was very low. Tyson Chandler constructed a no-fly zone that restricted Grant Hill's off-ball cuts, and Stephon Marbury also struggled mightily under the swarming defense of the Bulls' guards.

Yet Lynch's performance of tearing apart the Bulls' frontcourt ensured the victory for the Knicks.

87 to 81. The Chicago Bulls' nine-game winning streak was snapped, while the Knicks extended their own winning streak to seven games.

With this, the Knicks surpassed the Miami Heat, who had just lost their match and held a record of 13 wins and 6 losses, climbing to second place in the Eastern Conference!

The last time the Knicks appeared in this position was in 2000, back in the era of Patrick Ewing, Allan Houston, and Latrell Sprewell.

Although the season had just begun, and although this was not the final ranking, New York fans could at least now believe Lynch's words: "We are not the kind of team that merely sneaks into the playoffs."

Stephon Marbury bumped fists with Lynch after the match: "Second in the conference, good lord, I haven't known what the second seed feels like since I left Minneapolis!"

Lynch casually ruffled that head: "There are plenty of things you haven't experienced yet, like winning a playoff series."

On the other side, Shaquille O'Neal, who had just lost the game, was experiencing the bitterest night of the season.

Today, he shot 12 out of 15 from the field, racking up 34 points and 17 rebounds—statistically as pretty as it could possibly get.

Yet in the final 15 seconds, the Diesel failed to secure the most crucial rebound.

In the paint melee, Raptors forward Jalen Rose darted out like a ghost, his fingertips managing to snatch the ball away.

When Jalen Rose launched into a secondary leap for a direct layup, the referee immediately whistled Haslem for a defensive foul as he stepped up to contest.

Those two fatal free throws ultimately sealed the score at 94 to 92, completely crushing the efforts of the Heat players throughout the game.

Shaq was already feeling sick to his stomach; he felt the referees had ruined the game, and that final whistle made zero sense.

Yet when he learned that this defeat resulted in the Heat being surpassed in the standings by the Knicks, his nausea reached the point of morning sickness.

"I don't want to hear that name (Lynch)!" O'Neal heavily pounded the table to interrupt a reporter's question. "The regular season is long. Wait until all 82 games are played, and then you can look at the standings! Stop fucking comparing Lynch to me, I've had enough! I didn't come to Miami to defeat a rookie!"

The Diesel was not wrong. The regular season is long, which is a reflection of the NBA's cruelty.

A full 82 games—no basketball league on this planet possesses a schedule longer than this.

Even when playing the NBA 2K video game, few people have the patience to manually play through all 82 regular-season games, because it is simply too tedious.

A team might maintain its form and health for a month or two, but across a six-month regular-season schedule, injuries and fluctuating form remain unpredictable.

Just as no one could predict that Allan Houston would be ruled out for the season yet again after playing a mere 20 games.

After defeating the Bulls, in the fourth quarter against the Nuggets, Allan Houston twisted his knee following a collision and collapsed to the floor.

This former All-Star guard, who had surrendered his jersey number to Lynch, had only played 50 games last season. After careful deliberation, he had chosen conservative treatment over knee surgery.

Clearly, that decision changed his career.

The Knicks still won the game, but post-game medical reports indicated that the Knicks would be unable to welcome back Allan Houston for the remainder of the season.

This presented a challenge for Lenny Wilkens. The team's shooting guard position now had a structural vacancy, and there was no longer a player on the Knicks roster suited to start at the two-guard spot.

The once-talented Penny Hardaway was long past carrying a heavy load. Contrary to expectations, Penny Hardaway's biggest problem on the court was not his defense, but a catastrophic drag on the offense.

Advanced in age, he could no longer penetrate, slash to the rim, or rely on an efficient post-up game.

Now he could only score through catch-and-shoot jumpers after moving without the ball, yet Penny Hardaway had never been an exceptional jump shooter.

His defense was a disaster, of course, but his offense was a disaster within a disaster.

Even giving him more than 20 minutes of playing time was an act detrimental to the team.

Compelled by the circumstances, Lenny Wilkens had no choice but to temporarily push Trevor Ariza into the starting lineup. Until the Isiah Thomas could find a suitable shooting guard for the team, this was all he could do.

Although this rookie lacked experience and his shooting was absolute garbage, his exceptional physical tools ensured he at least wouldn't be a liability on defense.

For most coaches at the turn of the century, if a choice had to be made between defense and offense, the former was always prioritized.

The timing of Ariza's promotion to the starting lineup was terribly unfortunate.

Because in their next game, the Knicks' opponents were the Indiana Pacers.

This Eastern Conference powerhouse, untouched by the Malice at the Palace, had engaged in a six-game bloody battle with the champion Pistons last season before bowing out. Although Reggie Miller was absent due to injury, the roster spearheaded by Ron Artest and Jermaine O'Neal still resembled an iron torrent—a purgatorial test for a Knicks team missing Allan Houston.

Allan Houston was not sidelined for a day or two; he was out for the season.

How far Lynch could lead the team without Allan Houston, and whether he could overcome a team of the Pacers' caliber, would determine the ultimate ceiling of the Knicks this season.

On December 14, Madison Square Garden was packed to capacity as usual.

Trevor Ariza clutched his trembling fingertips in the locker room. Twenty games of professional experience had not yet helped him figure out what the NBA was truly about, and now he had to fill the abyss left by an All-Star shooting guard being out for the season.

As a second-round pick, he had never imagined breaking into the starting lineup after a mere twenty games; he was simply not ready. He shivered like a 17-year-old boy who had dropped out of school to work on a construction site, only to be dragged to a parlor by his coworkers.

Lynch was boosting morale, calling on everyone to perk up and draw blood from the Pacers with tough defense.

The last time the two sides met, the Pacers had won, and Lynch had no desire to lose to the same opponent twice.

Yet Ariza could not take in a single one of those stirring words. His eardrums felt as though they were covered in a thick layer of mist, turning all speech into meaningless roaring.

Nervousness completely occupied his brain, leaving not a single crack.

Grant Hill's hand suddenly descended upon his shoulder, causing the startled-bird-like rookie to spring up reflexively—which happened to collide with Lynch's murderous-sounding demand: "Does anyone think we're going to lose tonight? Stand up! I'm a very democratic person, and I'll never blame anyone who doesn't believe in us."

Lynch looked at his fellow rookie standing up, and the air in the locker room instantly froze.

Stephon Marbury leaped up, aiming a swipe at the back of Lynch's head: "Sit down! Sit down! Damn it!"

Hah, this was the consequence of believing in democracy in the Beacon of Freedom.

Ariza clutched his head, looking utterly innocent.

Fortunately, Hill stood firm like a monolith between them, his soothing voice smoothing over the agitation: "Relax, Stephen, he's already nervous enough. There's nothing to be afraid of, Trevor. You don't need to remember overly complex plays, and you don't need to do anything on the offensive end. You know how to play tight man-to-man defense, right?"

Ariza nodded.

"Good. During the game, you just need to stick close to Ron and force him to drive toward the center—that's all you have to do. When the game is over, you'll be a hero in the eyes of the New York media. Trust me, it's that simple."

When Trevor Ariza stepped onto the court, the roar of twenty thousand people made his cochleas ache.

In the opposing half, the guy who had broken Michael Jordan's ribs with a single stray elbow made Ariza feel suffocated.

Artest's bulging biceps gleamed under the lights. If he were to encounter such a figure on a street corner in Queens, he would definitely detour three blocks. But right now, he had to conquer his instinctive fear and stand in the path of this terrifying guy.

The hardest thing in the world was not being dragged into a parlor at a young age, but driving a tank on your very first visit.

Play tight man-to-man, defend him—is it really that simple?

He felt like Grant Hill was playing him for a fool.

As the game started, with Reggie Miller sidelined, Ron Artest was playing the shooting guard position today.

He had known before the game that the Knicks were forced to use a second-round rookie as a starter, so he had already locked his sights on Ariza.

Jamaal Tinsley brought the ball across half-court and handed it to Artest.

Artest held up three fingers. Jermaine O'Neal spread his hands: "What the fuck? We don't have that play! What are you calling?"

"I'm not calling a play, idiot. I'm telling this rook that I'm going to drop 30 points on that baby face."

Artest executed a simple crossover and drove directly. Trevor Ariza, following the instructions of the head coach and Grant Hill, played suffocating tight defense, completely ignoring everything else.

His long arms left Artest no space for a pull-up jumper; he could only lower his shoulder and plow toward the paint against Ariza.

Ariza felt his ribs reaching their limit, his legs turning to jelly as they were crushed by the immense force.

In the end, he collapsed at the edge of the paint, watching helplessly as Ron Artest leaped for a layup.

Despair filled Ariza's eyes; he figured he was about to become tonight's number-one clown.

"Bang!"

A loud crash echoed. Ron Artest was heavily knocked down by a dark shadow, and the basketball was swatted straight out of bounds.

The referee didn't blow the whistle; that was simply the physical standard of the early 2000s.

Lynch stood before Ariza, reaching out a hand to pull the rookie up while giving him a wink.

"Congratulations, you defended him. You just forced him into the paint, leave the rest to me. That's right, starting in the NBA is just that simple."

Now, Ariza suddenly understood why Stephon Marbury called Lynch God.

Yes, playing with Lynch, everything was simply that straightforward.

He bestowed courage upon his teammates; he bestowed confidence upon his teammates.

And all you had to do was give Lynch your trust, and you could embrace victory.

He was not the kind of guy who would collapse simply because a starting guard got injured.

The nervousness gradually receded, and Ariza walked back to face Artest, who was currently jawing at the smaller O'Neal.

Artest glanced at the long-limbed bastard and let out a light snort: "What are you smiling at? You don't think you can stop me again, do you?"

Trevor Ariza thought of Lynch, and his confidence exploded instantly.

He felt like he could probably talk trash to Ron Artest's mother right now and it wouldn't even matter.

"Again? I'm going to defend you today until you look like a basketball-ignorant fool!"

Grant Hill shook his head. Like leader, like follower.